Lately I find myself wanting to be objectified. This weekend I point blank told my husband that he needed to tell me more often that I looked hot. . .because, honestly, lately I do.
I’ve been working out 5 days a week since January. Cardio, weight training, yoga, running races, eating right (but never depriving myself). . .and the other day I finally saw results. I’m walking by mirrors and catching my reflection and thinking “damn, who is that“. This is not some ego trip I’m on (well, I suppose it could be, but still), this is hard earned and well deserved. . .So if I see it, why doesn’t the man I’ve been married to for nearly four years? I really shouldn’t have to sit him down and point it out. Objectify me, please. Whistle and cat call. . .I’m your trophy wife. This may all sound shallow and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but for some reason, right now, at 31 years of age, it matters to me. Other people are noticing. Men who I work out with in the gym (who are also happily married). Men in my office (who are also happily married). I’m trying to figure out if I’m carrying myself with more confidence and so that invites the compliments and comments? I’m not sure.
A lot of this has been brought on by a number. Last Friday I noticed my jeans were feeling kinda saggy. These were jeans I had purchased last fall when I was feeling pretty good about my body image (as opposed to a few months later, post football season and holidays when I was a little less satisfied). They were a rather small size, an 8, which by today’s vanity sized standards is probably closer to a 10, but whatever. They were smaller than anything I’d had in a while and for some reason, they were feeling kind of big. So I decided to head around the corner from my office and over to the mall to indulge my curiosity. . .to see if, by some strange miracle, I would fit into a size 6. I picked up two pairs of jeans, one 6, one 8, went into the dressing room, put the sixes on, told myself not to get my hopes up, pulled them up and wow. They fit. Like a glove. Like this is what my body was supposed to look like at 31. Like all of the work I’ve done is completely and totally worth it. It made me giddy a little, made me float. Made me feel like a million bucks. Needless to say, the new jeans came home with me. When I feel good about the way I look, I strut a little bit more than usual. Throw my hips from side to side, working what the good lord gave me. I feel hot, sexy and desirable. And I feel like I should be told that I am hot, sexy and desirable by the man that I love. I don’t feel that’s too much to ask? I’m hoping that in pointing this out to him he begins to see me as more than the person he wakes up next to every morning. I’m hoping that in going out of town for a few days, he’ll see me with fresh eyes. . .so that when I get back, he’ll take me in his arms and tell me how much he missed his hot wife.